Cast of Characters, Part 3: Patient F and the Coke Machine

Other than the unit common area, the primary gathering place of the ward was the kitchen area. It's not only where we eat, but also where we meet for Education Groups (see this post for more on those) because of the presence of a whiteboard on which to write the oh-so-useful tidbits offered in that daily group. The kitchen area also serves as a nice quiet place in the times between meals and groups when you're trying to avoid your roommate, the staff, or even the other patients. When you just want a bit of quiet.

There are three long, rectangular tables that hold about ten chairs each, a bunch of locked cabinets that hold art supplies (except the one unlocked drawer that has construction paper and markers), the drawer of extra condiments, the whiteboard which occasionally sports anonymous messages from the patients, and... the Coke machine.

The type of machine we had. Who knew it'd cause such drama.

This example is from At Your Service vending.

I didn't pay much attention to the Coke machine since I believe that Diet Coke is the elixir of life, but the machine only dispensed caffeine-free Diet Coke and that's just unacceptable. Also, everything was $1.50 and it's not like I was carrying my wallet with me on the ward. But having a Coke machine adds a certain amount of normalcy to the situation. Yes, we might be wearing hospital gowns and taking fistful of pills, wandering aimlessly around the nurses' station in endless laps, but at least there are Coca-Cola products available. But the machine was really more for visitors and staff than the patients.

Patient F was undeterred by this generalization about the machine's purpose. Now, Patient F was a source of some interest for me, if not great irritation. For one, when he bothered to go to groups, which wasn't often, he was one of the mysterious patients who refused to say why he was there, leaving me to just wonder what his problems were. He would only say either that he "just wasn't supposed to be here," or he'd say something along the lines of "I must have said something wrong down in the ER." When pressed as to what he said in the ER, he'd just say that he'd rather not repeat it. And that was the end of it. Not a lot to go on, but enough for my imagination to wander. My favorite of my ridiculous theories was that he drank an entire bottle of Ranch dressing that was probably expired and the ER staff assumed it was an attempted suicide via buttermilk overdose.

But back to the Coke machine. Patient F was the primary patron of that Coke machine. After he'd used all his own money on Fanta (if he'd even had any money to begin with), he would start asking staff and other patients for spare change so he could get another taste of that sugary orange goodness. Somehow he got enough money at least twice, for twice he disrupted Education Group with the chikchikchikCLINK, chikchikchikCLINK of dropped coins -- coin after coin after coin -- into the machine. The disruption infuriated Therapist Chipmunk. Both times she asked him to leave, so he would press the button to get back what coins he'd already put in (clangclangclangclang!), then go wait outside the kitchen area until group was over.

The first time he asked me for change, I just shrugged it off and told him, "I got nothin', dude." (For some reason he struck me as a "dude.") But the panhandling was a daily occurrence, and he asked everyone for change, staff and patients -- even the patients who were practically comatose. What was he expecting from them? They'd snap out of their stupor and dig through their pockets for him? Also, what patient on a psych ward is carrying money on them anyway? It's not like there's much of a use for it.

Then, one day, the Coke machine broke.

It's like Patient F couldn't handle the loss. He kept trying to use it, despite the OUT OF ORDR that would flash across the tiny display (yes, for some reason there was no E, it indeed said ORDR because the display was too small for five letters). Like, if he just ignored it, the machine might work anyway. To fight his denial, Patient L and I made a big "OUT OF ORDER" sign out of construction paper and put it up on the machine with tape requested from the nurses' station.

(Unfortunately Patient X tore the sign down with his inexplicable, silent focus. Patient L yelled and screamed at him but it made no difference. Either he didn't understand her because he doesn't speak English, or he just wasn't in a mental place that allowed him to notice others. Patient X just calmly crumpled up the paper and threw it in the garbage as the staff came running. Patient L tried making another sign, but Patient X just tore it down again within an hour. But that's beside the point.)

When Patient F finally came to terms with the loss of the Coke machine, he changed his tactics. He noticed that I drank Diet Coke, which my parents brought for me whenever they visited. He started asking if I would give him any Diet Coke. Since I only ever had one bottle at a time, I of course told him "no." Tch. Not that I would ever give him any my precious Diet Coke. It's the elixir of life, for chrissake. I'm not sharing.

But my negative responses didn't stop him from asking me every day, whether or not I even had a Diet Coke in sight. He'd focused his sights on me as a potential source of carbonated beverages, and he wasn't going to give up easily.

It was when he asked me if I would give him a Diet Coke, while I was on the phone, that I snapped.

"Dude," I enunciated, as if I could express in one word all my exasperation with his rudeness and futile doggedness. "No. I don't have Diet Coke for you. I will never have Diet Coke for you. I'm on the phone. Leave me alone."

He never asked me again.

Patient F still asked other patients for things, though. As I mentioned in the previous post, he was the master of "Are you gonna eat that?", and was a post-meal scavenger of the tray cart. Watching him pick at someone else's discarded and undoubtedly cold fries was a little disturbing, though not as disturbing as when he'd come into the kitchen area and raid the condiment drawer. He would eat the little packets of apple jelly and Ranch dressing. Just open them up and squeeze them right into his mouth. The Ranch packets he'd do three at a time. I gagged a little every time I saw him do it. Grrroooossssssssssss. Gross, gross. (It was the sucking down Ranch packets that made me imagine him going to the ER for a buttermilk overdose.)

Combine the panhandling with the scavenging and the fact that he never seemed to shower (seriously, Patient L called him "Mr. Stinky"), and it's hard not to come to the conclusion that maybe Patient F was homeless. Homeless patients aren't entirely unheard of. Patient Ji admitted outright that he was currently homeless, and I'd be shocked if Patient Monsieur LeRoi wasn't homeless.

Anyway, after the Ranch packet incidents -- yes, plural -- it was hard to get the thought of Patient F being homeless out of my mind. Scraggly beard, constantly begging, digging through discarded food, smelling bad. While those certainly aren't the core issues of being homeless, they tend to be symptoms. Maybe the thought of him being homeless should have made me think of him with a little more kindness and compassion... but no. I don't share my Diet Coke with anyone. And being constantly bugged for stuff is annoying.

The only time my homeless theory came into question was when he got into an argument with Therapist Hard Stare during breakfast one day. Therapist Hard Stare must have said something about Patient F needing to shower more often, and Patient F flipped out. For the most part, his outrage was expressed unintelligibly, though I did catch him claiming to be more educated than Therapist Hard Stare, so what did he know? That was just hilarious to me. Patient L and I had to stifle our laughter in our paper napkins.

Unfortunately, Therapist Hard Stare made the mistake of touching Patient F on the arm to try to lead him out of the kitchen so that, if he was going to make a scene, it wasn't going to be while the rest of the patients were trying to eat. That brought on new outrage and shouted accusations of assault. (Because any sort of unwanted physical contact, no matter how minor or maybe even unintentional, equals assault.) The "more educated than you" comment made me question my homeless theory, but the general unpleasantness of the fit that he threw (and so early in the morning) -- it solidified my dislike of him. Even intensified it.

Patient F was still there when I was discharged. And I never got to see the Coke machine fixed. It's probably still broken even now, if that one broken phone is any indication of the state of hospital maintenance.

I can't see a bottle of Fanta now without feeling inexplicably irritated. Ugh.

Orange, sugary goodness.

From the official Fanta website.

Cold Eggs, Coveted Coffee, Etc. (a.k.a. Meal Time)

 

What fuels normal people.

(Image from Corbis.)

 

What fuels... us.

(Image from Getty Images, by Steven Errico.)

In the hospital ward, we get three square meals a day, even if they're slightly rounded squares. Roughly, at 8:00am, 12:30pm, and 5:15pm, the big cart is wheeled through the airlocks and into our domain. Every time it arrives, a herd of patients forms around it, lying in wait until the cart is unlocked and they can fall upon it like ravenous wolves. ...No, that's not actually a very accurate description. While the circling, waiting, and falling-upon is all true, it's all done in a shuffling sort of slow-motion. It's more like a swarm of shambling zombies than a pack of wolves. Even the smaller 9:00pm snack cart gets this intense amount of anticipation and attention. Food is important in the ward, not because of its nutrition value (because there is none to this food), or even just the need to eat for survival; it's that meal times make structure.

While several things mark the schedule of each day written on the big whiteboard, each assigned to their specific time, it's the meals that give order to the day. Sometimes groups or activities aren't held due to under-staffing, and sometimes you don't get a visitor during visiting hours, but you will always get a meal at the designated times. I hate to say that they're the highlights of the day, but... well. Sometimes you get cookies for dessert.

What surprised me about the hospital meals is that you actually order your food. I assumed that you were just given whatever and you ate whatever was given to you, dammit. Not so. Every morning, each patient is given a menu for the following day's meals. (Each menu is marked by a sticker with a patient's name so that there's no confusion in the kitchen.) You take your menu and your little pencil, handed out for this exact purpose, and circle what it is you want. If you don't turn in a menu or just don't circle something, you get whatever was first on the menu for breakfast, hamburgers for lunch, and chicken tenders for dinner. That's the way it works.

Quite frankly, it's sometimes the only real choice any of the patients are given.

We may not be masters of when we get to leave the hospital, or masters of what we do that day, or masters of how we feel, thanks to medication changes, but, god dammit, we do get to choose what we eat (out of a few options, that is -- there are limits to everything).

Sadly, the eggs at breakfast are always cold. I learned quickly not to order eggs. The cheese pizza is great, though. (Or as great as anything made in a hospital cafeteria can be.) Very cheesy.

While this isn't my favorite picture of hospital food from Getty Images,

I had to post it because that tray cover is exactly the type used by this hospital,

except ours were blue instead of green.

(Photo by Stewart Cohen.)

As if we're all elementary school children in the cafeteria, we sit around in the kitchen area of the ward and swap food with each other. Desserts are traded for side dishes, or sometimes just given away out of kindness for our fellow man (or disinterest or disgust with the food). Spare ketchup and salad dressing packets are begged for. Coffee is the most precious commodity of all. Patient G in particular would beg for others' coffees. It was possible to order more than one of anything in particular by writing a "x 2" next to the item on the menu, but they'll never give you more than two. Patient D always ordered two coffees and was very protective of them, despite Patient G's pleading. Patient G would drink his two coffees and then always beg other patients' for more. Eventually some of the other patients started ordering extra coffee just to give to Patient G and shut him up. (Not that requests for more of anything were certain to be granted) By around Day 4 of my stay, I stopped drinking my own coffee and just gave it to Patient G. Not only did it shut him up, but then I got to feel like a saint for a little while.

Trading food amongst ourselves is acceptable behavior. It's not creepy or anything. The creepy behavior always came during the brief in-between time after everyone had finished eating and before the cart (with all the empty trays) was taken away. During that window of time, there were scavengers. Patient G would go searching for coffees he had somehow missed, peeking into every Styrofoam cup in the cart, and Patient F would grab any uneaten thing he could find, either squirreling it away or shoving it into his mouth right then.

Just as Patient G begged for coffee, Patient F begged for anything. He was the master of "Are you going to eat that?" Always preying on the weak-willed patients who didn't know how to shake him off; they'd usually just give him something to make him go away, like throwing a bone at a dog and running away while it's distracted. I always wondered why the nurses and therapists didn't stop the creepy scavenging of the tray cart, but I guess creepy-but-basically-harmless behavior isn't high on the list of priorities for an understaffed nurse or therapist. They're busy enough trying to keep Patient X from taking his pants off.

A great discovery came from Patient L late in my stay. I probably would have abused it if I'd known about it sooner. She discovered that if you wrote "please" or "thank you" next to any request on the menu (like for "x 3" cookies, for example), you were more likely to get them. A shocking idea, I know. Usually requests for multiple items were ignored, and, even when they were granted, they never gave more than two of anything. But Patient L discovered that the cafeteria workers' hearts could be softened by a kind word and a smiley face, and that got her three cookies.

They were pretty good cookies, too. The eggs were cold, the salads were just lettuce, and the jello was inexplicably lumpy, but at least the cookies were good.

So eat up.

Yum.
Getty Images, by PhotoAlto/Milena Boniek